Clinging to Hope
by Stormblade3
Summary: Sam is a hunter who lives in Whiterun, living off the land and surviving on what little he can catch and gather. Life wasn't always like this though, he used to be a legend, he used to be great.


Sam groaned and peeled open exhausted eyes, gazing up at the wooden ceiling, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep. His stomach rumbled, a rude reminder of why he had to get up, and he swung his legs heavily over the edge of the bed standing slowly, rubbing his eyes and stumbling blindly into the bathroom. He picked up a small bucket filled with water and scooped a large handful into his palms, pressing the lukewarm water against his face, letting it run down over his face, dripping to the floor.

Sam looked down into the sad green eyes staring up at him in the reflection and then sighed, standing and lurching unsteadily back into the bedroom where he changed into old hide armor and strapped an iron dagger to his waist, slinging a pack of steel arrows and a hunters bow over his shoulder before he left the house.

_I used to be great, _the man thought bitterly as he limped toward the Whiterun city gates. _People used to worship my name, now look at me. _

"Morning Sam!" One of the guards called as he dragged himself out of the city, he could do nothing more than nod wearily to the friendly gesture as he set his eyes on the mountains beside Riverwood where he would hunt today.

This was his life now, hunting deer and rabbits, picking thistles and mountain flowers, coming home in the evening to sell what had taken him all day to find and receiving meager compensation from the various merchants in Whiterun. What hurt the most was that they were so generous with him, often giving more than he deserved for what little he brought, he was not used to depending so dearly on others, he was loath to admit that without the extra money they gave up for him he would starve.

As he left the slew of farmland outside Whiterun behind he drew the bow from his back, fitting an arrow onto the string and tensing, ready to pull back and shoot in a moment. He sighed as he remembered moving like this beside Aela when they violently tore the Silver Hand apart, his beast blood did not work anymore, the destroyed nerves and tendons in his right leg made sure of that.

His thoughts flew back to the present as he spun, raising his bow to intercept the crunching behind him. _A deer! _It was a sad life, he realized, to become so excited at the sight of a common animal of prey. He drew the arrow back and tensed his arm, ready to let it fly.

The deer looked up then, straight at him, turning and bolting away. With a cry of fury Sam shifted the trajectory if his arrow and let it fly, he watched it soar wide missing the animal completely. Of course it did. The man slumped back against a tree trunk and sighed, blinking furiously as his eyes misted over- there was no way in oblivion that _he_ was going to cry over being unable to kill a deer.

He shook his head, disappointed and angry at himself and started toward the river which ran through from the little village ahead of him. There would be no hunting today then; he dropped his bag, bow, and arrows on the riverside before pulling off his tunic, boots, and pants, leaving him in only his undergarments. Sam waded out into the river and ignored the freezing chill which darted through his legs, waiting for his Nord blood to heat himself as he stood, watching for the silver flash of a salmon to gut with the dagger in his hand.

It was an interesting fishing technique he had learned from a traveling bard that he had originally written off as useless and outrageous, come to find out he caught more fish by bending and stabbing into the water at the right angle then sitting at the edge of the river with a hook and a worm and hope.

It was a wearisome job, each salmon he killed he yanked off the knife and threw onto the rocky edge of the river where his things waited, and his mind wandered.

He thought of that battle at one of the forts, their cause had been strong and firm, they had been doing so well. Until some Imperial mage shot a string of flame at his leg, and his world became white with pain. After he, Stormblade Ulfric's greatest general, fell so did the Stormcloak armies morale and it was only a few months before Tullius stormed Windhelm and killed Ulfric.

It took nine months for Sam to recover from when he had been set on fire, and the healers told him in dejected, quiet voices his adventuring days were over. At first he hadn't believed them, but after several failed missions and almost being murdered in a battle with a dragon when his leg collapsed beneath him he accepted what was. Now he was reduced to picking flowers and standing half naked in a river murdering fish to get by.

Aela had left him and taken charge of the Companions, Karliah and Brynjolf had no choice but to take power of the guild from him, he couldn't go on great heists or jobs if he could barely move. Tullius had stripped him of any great titles he had held in Skyrim, all but one of his homes were sold, his money taken and given to the Imperial cause, his housecarls brought back to their respective keeps, and all Sam could do was watch as his life crumbled around him. Whenever he used the Voice he lost his balance and became winded and stunned, his beast blood had been damaged somehow by the fire, and the Daedra and gods he had dedicated his life to had forsaken him- what use did they have for a weak champion?

"Sam!" He blinked and turned to see Gerdur standing on the river's edge, beside the sizable pile of fish he had collected. "Fishing day?" She called. Despite losing his family and fortune the commoners still appreciated what he had done for them when he defeated Alduin and destroyed the Dark Brotherhood, and they showed their gratitude by giving what little they could to him, which most commonly were a few kind words.

"More like a bad hunting day," He forced a smile to his lips as he struggled out of the strong current of water toward her.

"Well, if you need some money Sam-"

"Thank you Gerdur but I cannot accept from you without knowing I can pay you back." He interjected before she could go on, knowing where she was headed.

"Then at the very least put some clothes on before you catch ataxia. You want work, come on up to the village and chop firewood for me- this is no time of year to be standing around fishing in a river." He nodded heavily as he pulled his clothes back on and stuffed the salmon he had caught into his bag, following her up to Riverwood.

_Dragonborn hero, chopping firewood to feed himself tonight. _He thought bitterly, and he worked numbly for the better half of his afternoon with an ax and a pile of wood.

By the time he packed up to head home Gerdur paid him with fifty septims, no more than she owed him for his work which he was thankful for. She wished him luck as he started down the road, shoulders slumped, face downcast.

Battleborn Farm was just ahead of him when Sam heard a low, threatening growl. He turned, the dagger jumping from his belt to his hand just in time to catch the wolf mid-leap. The creature yelped and collapsed as he stabbed through its chest and Sam stumbled backward, yanking his blade harshly from the wolf's body. There were almost always two or more wolves together, and the second wasted no time in making itself known as it leaped forward. Sam turned, prepared, confident that this battle would last no more than a moment.

Then his leg throbbed, flashing with an unbearable agony which made him collapse, gasping as the beast's teeth passed centimeters from his throat, the wolf's body slamming into the man and bowling him over so he was on his back, the wolf on top. He grabbed the beasts jaws and threw the thick black body off of him, rolling and picking up his knife, furiously stabbing the wolf until it was still, every angry blow of his knife reflecting every hatred he now held for the world.

Finally Sam stopped, and collapsed backward so he was looking up at the night sky. _Almost killed by wolves, my adventures and journeys really are finished. _He sighed heavily, feeling weak and pathetic and useless, a great burden to Skyrim.

By the time he finally limped back home, undressed, and crawled under the fur covers of his bed Sam was exhausted, he felt raw and sore on the inside. Nonetheless he repeated the words he told himself every night before he fell asleep.

"Maybe tomorrow," Maybe tomorrow his leg would be healed, and he could remake his name, maybe Aela would return to him, maybe Karliah would give him a place in the guild again, maybe he could become the man he used to be. Five years like this and he never forgot to utter those two words, they kept him alive, they gave him peace and comfort.

They gave him a shred of hope.

**Authors Note: **_Just a little drifting idea I got while playing, what do you guys think?_

_Reviews are appreciated and thanks for reading!_

_-SB3_


End file.
